Come we from the storm-dark mountains, lands of stone and frowning trees. Who masters us is master only so long as bone and flesh survive. Quick, cold eyes and sable wings, we are seers of all. To us inevitably fall both the weak and the mighty; our wings steal the cries from their lips. Even kings are ours, ere the sword-sent end, and we feast blood-black on fields of death where victor and vanquished are one.
We see, we see your petty secrets, your great deceits, and we hear, oh yes, each bitter grief you whisper to an unheeding sky. Look not to us for pity's insipid touch, nor care we for your toothless curses. We bear our tidings to whom we may, that with tooth and blade they may lay our feast. Our master is him who blood provides, and with the flesh of his enemy feeds our young.
Yet even masters fall, you see. In the end, all life comes to us.